Author's notes to all: I swore to myself that I would never, ever, ever,
ever write a Mary-Sue fic... and now I have broken that promise. I accept
all and any flames. I wrote it with someone special in mind (not me), so I
hope that exonerates me a little bit.
Author's notes to one in particular: Because you wrote in your review for Lea's "A Perfect Violation":
'I would really think that a romance would be kinky and cool but lets face it you cant really have a romance with this sorta guy but wouldnt it be just so freakin cool?!',
Zeech, you are Kate and this one's for you. ;-)
---
A person shouting into his cell phone, full of self-importance, isn't going to notice me.
But this bright-faced, slender young thing standing there in the snow, chafing her hands, already has.
I only noticed her a few weeks ago; she only made a few phone calls from the booth before I rang her up. But from those two or three calls I learned a lot.
When she spoke on the receiver, she seemed to immerse herself completely in conversation, listening, questioning, sympathizing. People seemed to flock to her constantly with their problems--dozens of boring, mundane, wearisome troubles--and she never tired of it. She had the clearest intuition and strongest sensitivity I ever saw in a person.
I phoned her. I played with her a bit, toyed with her mind, considered picking up the rifle. But she couldn't be twisted; her thoughts couldn't be touched. She slipped from my grasp every time I tried to catch her.
Soon there wasn't any question of using the rifle. I couldn't even bring myself to look at it.
"Why do you keep phoning me?"
"Because you, Kate, are a refreshing change of pace. People come in and out of this phone booth every day--arrogant, conceited, lying, cold, cruel people who live to destroy other people. You, however, are like nobody I have ever come across."
I find myself constantly confessing everything to her, revealing the vulnerable part of myself. She was very quiet when I told her about the killings, and she didn't answer for a minute or two when I admitted I'd thought about shooting her. But she never hung up--never, not once, took the opportunity to hurt me.
"You're probably bored out of your mind, listening to me talk like this."
"Never. I could listen to you all day."
I was taken aback. "What?"
Laughter, and a bit of bashful colour staining her cheek. "It's your voice, it's... it's like silk. It sends shivers down my spine."
She lives at a shelter for homeless people. She helps out the staff there, making the beds and cooking the meals. Her cheeks are hollow--the fine lines of her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw makes my hands tremble-- and there are dark smudges under her eyes. But her smile is bright underneath the glass windows of the booth, and her laugh sparkles across the line.
During the days she goes outside onto the sidewalks and streets, carrying her battered old backpack. She finds a smooth expanse of concrete and settles herself down, rummaging through the bag and fishing out a box of chalk. Balancing an empty old baseball cap beside her canvas, she goes to work.
A fuzzy outline with feathery strokes, then smooth, thick sweeps to fill in the shapes. Her hands are deft and quick, her fingers and palms dusty with powdery soot as she rubs them together. A picture appears: a bird amid the clouds, a tree at sunrise, a couple sitting at a table. People stop and stare; some nod and murmur approvingly, and toss loose change into the baseball cap.
She stops, and blows on her hands to warm them. Crouching above the sidewalk, her hands clasped around her knees, she studies her artwork intently with her head tilted to one side.
Then she rustles through the change in the baseball cap, pockets it, and packs up her materials. She swings the backpack over her shoulder and trudges away, flexing her stiff fingers and stretching out her long legs.
I stood outside the booth two weeks after we first talked. My heart was stuttering rapidly, sending bursts of nervous energy through my hands and head. What if she didn't show, what if she didn't recognize me, what if she was turned off by my appearance, what if...
"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to use the phone."
And there she was, leaning on one foot, smiling ruefully with one corner of her mouth quirked up. My throat went dry and I gurgled out something garbled before quickly clearing it with a cough. "He's--the person you're trying to phone, he's not at home. He can't take your call."
She stares at me blankly, then her face lights up with a glow of delight and waiting out here for her for an hour, shivering in the cold, is suddenly worth every last minute. From then on I stay outside beside the booth every day, and sometimes we even go for a short walk together.
---
To be continued...
Reviews are wonderful things! :)
Author's notes to one in particular: Because you wrote in your review for Lea's "A Perfect Violation":
'I would really think that a romance would be kinky and cool but lets face it you cant really have a romance with this sorta guy but wouldnt it be just so freakin cool?!',
Zeech, you are Kate and this one's for you. ;-)
---
A person shouting into his cell phone, full of self-importance, isn't going to notice me.
But this bright-faced, slender young thing standing there in the snow, chafing her hands, already has.
I only noticed her a few weeks ago; she only made a few phone calls from the booth before I rang her up. But from those two or three calls I learned a lot.
When she spoke on the receiver, she seemed to immerse herself completely in conversation, listening, questioning, sympathizing. People seemed to flock to her constantly with their problems--dozens of boring, mundane, wearisome troubles--and she never tired of it. She had the clearest intuition and strongest sensitivity I ever saw in a person.
I phoned her. I played with her a bit, toyed with her mind, considered picking up the rifle. But she couldn't be twisted; her thoughts couldn't be touched. She slipped from my grasp every time I tried to catch her.
Soon there wasn't any question of using the rifle. I couldn't even bring myself to look at it.
"Why do you keep phoning me?"
"Because you, Kate, are a refreshing change of pace. People come in and out of this phone booth every day--arrogant, conceited, lying, cold, cruel people who live to destroy other people. You, however, are like nobody I have ever come across."
I find myself constantly confessing everything to her, revealing the vulnerable part of myself. She was very quiet when I told her about the killings, and she didn't answer for a minute or two when I admitted I'd thought about shooting her. But she never hung up--never, not once, took the opportunity to hurt me.
"You're probably bored out of your mind, listening to me talk like this."
"Never. I could listen to you all day."
I was taken aback. "What?"
Laughter, and a bit of bashful colour staining her cheek. "It's your voice, it's... it's like silk. It sends shivers down my spine."
She lives at a shelter for homeless people. She helps out the staff there, making the beds and cooking the meals. Her cheeks are hollow--the fine lines of her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw makes my hands tremble-- and there are dark smudges under her eyes. But her smile is bright underneath the glass windows of the booth, and her laugh sparkles across the line.
During the days she goes outside onto the sidewalks and streets, carrying her battered old backpack. She finds a smooth expanse of concrete and settles herself down, rummaging through the bag and fishing out a box of chalk. Balancing an empty old baseball cap beside her canvas, she goes to work.
A fuzzy outline with feathery strokes, then smooth, thick sweeps to fill in the shapes. Her hands are deft and quick, her fingers and palms dusty with powdery soot as she rubs them together. A picture appears: a bird amid the clouds, a tree at sunrise, a couple sitting at a table. People stop and stare; some nod and murmur approvingly, and toss loose change into the baseball cap.
She stops, and blows on her hands to warm them. Crouching above the sidewalk, her hands clasped around her knees, she studies her artwork intently with her head tilted to one side.
Then she rustles through the change in the baseball cap, pockets it, and packs up her materials. She swings the backpack over her shoulder and trudges away, flexing her stiff fingers and stretching out her long legs.
I stood outside the booth two weeks after we first talked. My heart was stuttering rapidly, sending bursts of nervous energy through my hands and head. What if she didn't show, what if she didn't recognize me, what if she was turned off by my appearance, what if...
"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to use the phone."
And there she was, leaning on one foot, smiling ruefully with one corner of her mouth quirked up. My throat went dry and I gurgled out something garbled before quickly clearing it with a cough. "He's--the person you're trying to phone, he's not at home. He can't take your call."
She stares at me blankly, then her face lights up with a glow of delight and waiting out here for her for an hour, shivering in the cold, is suddenly worth every last minute. From then on I stay outside beside the booth every day, and sometimes we even go for a short walk together.
---
To be continued...
Reviews are wonderful things! :)
